Hornet's Nest by Patricia Cornwell Read Free Book Online

lookedlost. He was talking on his portable phone, and casting about in this bad part of town. He turned off on Mint Street. Brazil was still looking out at dangerous people looking back at them when West got interested in the Toyota directly ahead, its side window knocked out, the license plate hanging by a coat hanger. There were two young males inside. The driver was watching her in the rearview mirror.
    “What you wanna bet we got a stolen car ahead,” West announced.
    She typed the plate number into the MDT. It began to beep as if she’d just won at slot machines. She read the display and flipped on flashing blue and red lights. The Toyota blasted ahead of them.
    “Shit!” West exclaimed.
    Now she was in a high-speed pursuit, trying to be a race driver and balance a cigarette and coffee and snatch up the mike, all at the same time. Brazil didn’t know what to do to help. He was having the adventure of his life.
    “700!” West’s voice went up as she yelled into the mike. “I’m in pursuit!”
    “Go ahead, 700,” the radio came back. “You have the air.”
    “I’m north on Pine, turning left on Seventh, give you a description in a second.”
    Brazil could scarcely contain himself. Why didn’t she pass, cut the car off. The Toyota was just a V6. How fast could it go?
    “Hit the siren!” West shouted at him as the engine strained.
    Brazil didn’t have this course in the volunteer academy. Unfastening his seatbelt, he groped around under the dash, the steering column, West’s knees, and was practically in her lap when he found a button that felt promising. He pressed it as they roared down the street. The trunk loudly popped up. West’s car rocked into a dip as they sped after the Toyota, and crime-scene equipment, a raincoat, a bubble light, flares spilled out, scattering over pavement. West couldn’t believe it as she stared into the rearview mirror at her careerbouncing away in the afterburn. Brazil was very quiet as police lights were turned off. They slowed, crawled off the road, and stopped. West looked at her ride-along.
    “Sorry,” Brazil said.

THREE
    W est answered nothing more for an hour and twenty-five minutes, as she and Brazil inched their way along the street, collecting police gear that had jumped out of the trunk. The bubble light was shattered blue plastic. Flares were crushed paper cases leaking a dangerous composition. A Polaroid crime-scene camera would capture nothing anymore. The raincoat was miles away, snagged on the undercarriage of a station wagon, touching the exhaust pipe and soon to catch on fire.
    West and Brazil drove and stopped, picked up, and drove again. This went on without conversation. West was so angry she did not dare speak. So far, two patrol units had cruised past. There was no doubt in the deputy chief’s mind that the entire four-to-midnight shift knew exactly what had happened and probably thought it was West who had hit the switch because she hadn’t been in a pursuit in this life. Before tonight she had been respected. She had been admired by the troops. She stole a hateful glance at Brazil, who had recovered a jumper cable and was neatly coiling and tucking it beside the spare tire, which was the only thing that hadn’t flown out, because it was bolted down.
    “Look,” Brazil suddenly spoke, staring at her beneath astreetlight. “I didn’t do it on purpose. What more do you want me to say?”
    West got back in the car. Brazil halfway wondered if she might drive off without him, and just leave him out here to be murdered by drug dealers or hookers who were really men. Maybe the consequences were occurring to West, too. She waited for him to climb in. He shut the door and pulled the seatbelt across his chest. The scanner hadn’t stopped, and he was hoping they’d go on something else quick so he could redeem himself.
    “I have no reason to have a detailed knowledge of your car,” Brazil said in a quiet, reasonable tone. “The Crown Vic I got